


Till the Morning Came Again

by watsonwaltz



Series: The Calendar Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Case Fic, Child Death, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sherlock discovers difficult new emotions, and John tries to provide some comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonwaltz/pseuds/watsonwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again." - Through the Looking-Glass, Lewis Carroll</p><p>Sherlock and John embark on a case to find a missing girl in the middle of a harsh winter in London, with a heartbreaking result, especially for Sherlock who's just coming to terms with his new-found emotions.</p><p>Part 1 of The Calendar Collection: 12 works in 2014 inspired by one literary quote per month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Morning Came Again

The case that John Watson sat at his desk to type up one afternoon was perhaps one of the most difficult he and Sherlock had ever encountered, not in its complexity of situation, but in its closure, or rather, in the little life it took to come to its end. Although it was quite a while before John chose to record the details of this case – six weeks, in fact – he needed no aid to remember; the events of that day would be forever ingrained in his memory, as they would be too for Sherlock.

Lestrade’s text buzzed through Sherlock’s phone just after 8am on the morning of January 2nd. It wasn’t too urgent – Lestrade would phone if it were an immediate emergency – but a text sent so early in the morning sent little tingles of excitement through Sherlock’s fingers as he unlocked his phone and read: _Missing child, gone since new year’s eve, no links except a missing Alice in Wonderland book, could really do with your help on this one_. Only a few seconds later, John was awoken by a much too energized Sherlock (or perhaps a Sherlock just a bit too bored after the Christmas festivities) throwing his way into their room with far too much gusto, as far as this sleepy doctor was concerned, calling for his partner to hurry; they finally had a case. One quick shower and two mouthfuls of tea later and John was following Sherlock as he raced impatiently down the stairs of 221B Baker Street, John urging Sherlock to put on a pair of gloves; this was one of the coldest winters London had seen in a few decades, and John knew all too well just how careless Sherlock could be with his health when a case was involved.

They arrived at the children’s care home Lestrade had directed them to in record time. John supposed the roads were so clear today because of the schools still being closed and the horrendous state of the weather. He said so to Sherlock, but he seemed to be otherwise occupied looking around himself and taking in as much information as possible about the street they were on. They traipsed their way from the taxi through the thick snow laying on the pavement to the stairs of the home, from which Lestrade met them and showed them up to the room where the little missing girl had been staying. “She’s six years old, and her name is Anna, been here since she was born. The carers discovered she was missing at around 11 o’ clock on the evening of Thursday, December 31st. They were gathering all of the kids to come and bring in the new year together, but they couldn’t find her in her room or anywhere in the building. We’ve been looking all over for her – her school, the hall around the corner where she has her dance lessons, we’ve asked the shop owners on the street if they’ve seen her, but nothing. We need your help, Sherlock.”

One of the other Yarders had handed Sherlock a small photograph while Lestrade was talking. Peering around Sherlock’s shoulder, John could see a little girl smiling up at him from the palm of Sherlock’s hand: warm, light brown skin, a mass of fluffy, curly brown hair, beautiful brown eyes, and a wonderfully cheeky grin made up of mostly shining white teeth, but a few little gaps where growing was still to be done. John found himself forgetting his surroundings and smiling back at the little Anna in the photograph. Sherlock, however, steely and professional as always, got straight to work, lunging all around the room for clues and throwing out questions as quickly as they were processed in his mind: _Did the reception staff allow any visitors into the building on the day she went missing?_ as he dropped to the floor to check underneath the bed, _Weren’t the doors locked at that time of night? Surely she couldn’t have simply walked out of the building_ , as he flung aside items of little Anna’s wardrobe, _Does she have any confidants in the home? Anyone with whom she has one-to-one contact?_ as he pulled out his magnifying glass to check a chip on the door handle.

“There’s no record of any visitors coming into the building on that day,” started one of the managerial staff, standing by Lestrade with his hands clutching a stuffed pink bunny teddy that Sherlock learned was found on the dormitory stairs of the building soon after the little girl’s disappearance was discovered. “And the doors weren’t locked just yet – a few members of our pastoral staff were running to and from their cars to bring in some of the surprises we had planned for the kids that night, you know, sweets, balloons, stuff like that... But yes, I suppose she would have a confidante in the home.” Sherlock stopped his rummaging at this and turned his attention onto the fumbling man with the nervous disposition. “All of our primary school aged children have one-to-one reading time with a volunteer once a week, a wonderful woman called Agnes. They all loved her, the children, couldn’t wait for their reading days with her. Agnes was a retired teacher, you see, she knew how to speak to the children, how to keep them calm. Well she, she passed away on Wednesday morning. We found out on Thursday, but we haven’t had the heart to tell the children yet, they’ll be heartbroken.” John could tell Sherlock was on to something; he was focusing intently on the man who seemed to be shrinking before John’s very eyes under the scrutiny of Sherlock’s stare.

“And when would Anna’s reading day have been?” Sherlock asked.  
“Wednesday. Wednesday afternoon, around 3—“   
“Was she read to here?”   
“Ah, no, in the study room, just across the hall.”   
Sherlock, as usual, led the way. Walking into the room, John saw a few little round desks with crayons and pencil pots scattered around, educational posters on the walls, and two rather beaten-up looking lounge chairs beside the window, where he supposed the children would sit to be read to by Agnes. He also saw Sherlock, staring out the window, face blank but focused – he’s got it, John thought to himself, he knows where she is. Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and was gone in a whirlwind, a mass of dark hair and a billowing coat thundering down the corridor of the care home.   
“Sherlock?” John called out, finally finding his feet and chasing after the detective, Lestrade, the care home administrator, and a few of the Yarders racing alongside him.   
“Come on, John, it’s freezing out there!” Sherlock bellowed over his shoulder.   
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Lestrade shouted at the detective’s back as they scrambled down the stairs of the care home, Sherlock making a beeline for the exit.   
“The drawings, Lestrade! In the girl’s room – the drawings!”

Resigned to the fact that that was as much information anyone was going to receive from Sherlock before he’d finally caught the lead he was chasing, the team made their way outside, careful not to fall on the ice or trip on the snow, but still trying to keep up the fiery pace Sherlock was setting as he bounded across the road and into the park, lying still and abandoned, covered in a thick white blanket of snow from the past few days’ downfall. John lost sight of Sherlock for just a brief moment as he had turned into a more secluded part of the park sheltered by some hedges, but the tableau that greeted him as he finally caught up with Sherlock – well, he’d never lose sight of that. He found Sherlock kneeling in the snow, the kneecaps of his expensive trousers growing damp as the snow melted beneath him, but he wasn’t paying attention to that. Sherlock, ever so slowly and with a tenderness only John had had the opportunity to witness before, bent forward slightly and reached out his un-gloved hand, brushing fresh white snow from light brown skin. Huddled underneath a bench hidden away by hedges was a little girl, her curly brown hair painted almost entirely white by the snow that had fallen on her in her wait, eyes shut tight as though in sleep, a worn out copy of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass set beside her left arm. Sherlock pressed his fingers to the side of her neck, checking for a pulse but with his eyes fixed on her peaceful little face. In one slow and steady movement, Sherlock scooped his arms underneath her body, and lifted little Anna to his chest, cradling her in his arms, her lips turned blue by the lack of warmth in her body, little fingers rigidly set in place. He had found her, but she was gone. Each participant of the tragic scene paused in silence, the hedges around the park blocking out any sound from the surrounding streets. The numbness that had washed over Sherlock as he knelt with Anna in his arms was broken by a light touch, one two three four five fingertips pulsing warmth through the coat on his back. At once, John was beside him, his right hand at Sherlock’s back, the left picking up the forgotten book, their silence kept even as the police arrived and took little Anna’s body to the morgue and Lestrade quietly requested that the pair come back to the station with him to write up the statement.

With a haste that indicated to Lestrade just how incredibly unpleasant this particular case was for Sherlock to explain, he unravelled the mystery of Anna’s disappearance and death. Looking out of the study room window of the children’s care home, Sherlock had noticed the little corner of the park sheltered off by hedges and covered in a thick layer of snow. He explained to Lestrade and John how he instantly made the connection to some of the drawings he had spotted in Anna’s room – drawings of a little girl with curly brown hair and an elderly lady with short grey hair sitting on a bench under a yellow crayon sun. It was obvious that the lady in the drawings was Agnes; perhaps Anna and Agnes had been looking forward to sitting on that bench in the summer for their reading times. Anna must have waited for Agnes to appear on Wednesday for their usual reading slot, but with no appearance and no explanation, Anna decided to take matters into her own hands and go to the bench on New Year’s Eve, in the hope of meeting Agnes there. She waited as long as she could. No-one found her, of course – no-one would want to go for a walk through a park in that weather – until it was too late. The little girl found under the bench with a bookmarked copy of _Through the Looking Glass_ had one friend in her life, and it seemed she couldn’t go on one day without her.

What felt like a week after that early morning text from Lestrade, John and Sherlock made their way back into their flat at 221B, John flicking on lights here and there to brighten the room that had fallen into darkness in the late afternoon of this Saturday in January. Sherlock’s coat felt a little heavier as he pulled it from his shoulders and lifted it onto the hook behind the door. Their home felt a bit colder as John pottered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock focused the last of his energy on getting to the sofa before his feet gave way, the dust seeming to settle a little slower around his feet. He hadn’t noticed the silence that had enveloped him as he sat with his head back and eyes shut on the sofa until the soft click of John setting Sherlock’s cup of tea on the coffee table brought him out of his trance. Feeling the gentle dip of the sofa as John sat down beside him, Sherlock closed his eyes again and tilted his head to the left to rest on his partner’s shoulder.

“Hey, you,” John said quietly into Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock in turn answering with a soft sigh. This was new for Sherlock, the emotional side of cases, finding himself personally connected without ever intending to do so. He had never experienced this before John. John the heart, Sherlock the brain, that’s how it had always been before Sherlock discovered he was capable of loving someone, too. John, on the other hand, had been there before. He’d seen innocent lives being taken too soon, young and old. He knew what it was like to feel a part of himself leave with that person, to grieve for the potential of a child caught up in a world too harsh for them to survive in. But Sherlock? Well, he’d need a bit of help along the way.

John lifted his hand to run his fingers along Sherlock’s jaw, still resting on his shoulder.“Let’s go to bed, my love, you look exhausted. We can talk about this in the morning, if you’re up for it. Okay?” They never really did stick to socially acceptable sleeping patterns, what with Sherlock’s unorthodox working hours, so if going to bed at 6pm and starting the next morning at 2am was what today called for, then so be it. John received a gentle nod in return, and led his forlorn lover to their bedroom, two cups of tea neglected in favour of warmth, sleep, and the transgression of this numbing sense of grief slowly overwhelming Sherlock, even just for the night. They changed into worn tops and pyjama bottoms and climbed into their bed, John pulling the crisp white duvet over their bodies. Sherlock curled his body towards John, settling his head just underneath John’s chin, John tucking one of his legs between Sherlock’s and placing his arm around Sherlock’s back to hold him close and keep him warm – to help him forget the coldness of the snow on his knees and hands that morning.

“John?”   
“Yes?”   
There was a short pause before Sherlock continued, speaking into John’s chest. “Do you think—if I had worked it out a bit quicker—“   
“There’s nothing more you could’ve done, Sherlock. You know that. A few more minutes won’t have saved her life.” John tilted Sherlock’s chin up to look at him face to face. “You found her. That’s all you could’ve done and you did it. The rest is a tragedy, yes, but it was out of our control. You mustn’t blame yourself.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and brought his head back below John’s chin, finding one of John’s hands and gripping it in his own. “Go to sleep, my love,” John whispered to Sherlock, stroking back the curls on his forehead to leave a gentle kiss where they had lain, till the morning came again.


End file.
